


A False Faced Sanity (Frerard)

by candiedkaydi



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedkaydi/pseuds/candiedkaydi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard is different. He acts different, feels different, and thinks different to other people, and he knows it. Not that he cares; Gerard couldn't care less how he feels, unless you count being bored all the time. His family find him strange, always emotionally shallow and superficially charming.  Moved to a new school, Gerard meets Frank, a shy, introverted boy with big ideas. They get along well, until an incident causes Frank to see Gerard through a different light. Soon, Frank and Gerard realise that Gerard's grim problem is a threat to them all.</p><p>Also on Wattpad and mychemicalromancefanfiction.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rain slipped down the window, like a teardrop, its path fast and uncertain in the dark night of May. 

Rick sat at the police phone centre computer, his train of thought drifting to the weather. It was unpredictable. It would rain one day, and sometimes become sunny in the next few minutes, or be forecast to be sunny and warm when there would be thunder instead. The weather was unable to decide what it wanted to be like, almost mimicking the patterns of the work of the call centres.

The phone rang. Picking it up, Rick sat back ready to type up the emergency, or get rid of the irksome kids who would prank call them in the middle of the night. He should have picked another profession, he thought to himself as he raised the phone to his ear. He should have picked something less demanding, involving less responsibility for the population of New Jersey. He could have been an artist. He had always been good with art, Rick contemplated. He could have been America's new Picasso.

He sighed as he held the phone, wondering how his life had come to this, fixing (or at least trying to fix) the mistakes of others. Rick expected a confused child, or a prank caller. Instead, he heard a breath, like ice blown through the phone. He moved back unconsciously, aware already that this was abnormal, that this wasn't meant to be happening. 

"Hello?" Rick asked instead of simply stating, uncertainty drowning out authority. "Who-?"

"Come... find me..." The voice rasped, but Rick could almost hear a smile. It was like the person had just run a marathon.

"Who are you? Where are you? What-" 

"You'll... never find me... I killed them all, understand? I killed them all..."

Rick's breath quickened. It felt as if something was crawling in his throat; it felt as if someone was choking him.

He heard quickened talking beside him, as if the person next to him had overheard the call. Instead she was trying to calm down the frantic screaming Rick could hear at the other end of the phone she held. "What? All? All of them? Where are you?" She asked, confused, panicked. Rick turned back to the phone he held, failing to keep his voice from wavering.

"Where are you?" He interrogated, taken aback. What was happening?

The person at the other end just laughed. It was a grating sound, high and rough, like knives scraping together. "You'll... never find... me..."

A laugh, cackling this time, then a high beep. The line had been cut. Rick looked forward, eyes wide, as he tried to make sense of the situation, of the call, of what had just happened. It took him a few seconds before he heard the small sound of the woman next to him, confused. The call centre was silent, but for her voice, wavering, but carried through the air like a cloud.

"There... there's been murders..." She said, quiet and confused. "They were murdered, the whole family..." 

*******************************************************************

The night was like a black cloud, shrouding everything in a veil, promising secrecy and quiet. The boy walked home, stopping for a call at the payphone on the way. It was dark and desolate out, as he had expected, and when he climbed through his room window at two in the morning, no one would ever suspect that he'd been out. 

He pulled his grey shirt up over his head. It was covered in dark brown and red stains and smelled metallic. The boy smiled as he took them to the en suite, and washed the top scrupulously, the blood cleaning off as if it had never been there.

"A little water clears us of this deed..." He quoted to himself, and laughed, a dark and grating sound that echoed in the bathroom. When he was done, he hung his shirt on the radiator to dry and repeated the actions with his jeans. He found his pyjama pants, and slipped them on silently, before sitting on his bed and picking up his notebook from the bedside table. He trailed his fingers on the rough black surface, and smiled once more. Flicking through the drawings of people whose only connection was that they were only drawn alive, and not in their current states, the boy found a fresh page, picked up his pencil, and drew a family.


	2. Chapter 1

     I was awake. I had been since 4 am, when the streetlights had just started to switch themselves off. I sat up, watching a bird sit on the windowsill outside, unaware of its insignificance. It would probably never know or care about the past or anywhere further in the future than a day. All it lived for was the present. I could just pick it up, I thought as I stared at its small frame, so swift and slight. I could just hold it in my hands, feel its warm, soft body, then watch its eyes glaze over as a squeeze, watch it go cold and dead in my hands...

     The bird seemed to feel my thoughts. It looked back at me, then hopped off the edge. I sat up, watching it leave, then pushed myself off the bed. It was 7 am, and I had more than enough time to leave. I stood, finding my footing, then walked to the wardrobe to find a top to wear. It was was dark out -- the clouds were covering the sun, blotting out all the light. As I picked a suitable shirt, my mind wandered to the events of the holidays. It does that often; it would refuse to just rest and stay in one place, but I was absolutely fine with that. I liked always thinking, you see. I liked always seeing, always remembering.

     As I picked a faded shirt, the memories of the day we arrived, at the beginning of these holidays, came back to me. It was the same shirt I had worn that day in the car as my mother tried (and failed) to start a conversation with me. The questions raged from "how are you?" to "how's school?", but what irked me the most was that she persisted. I had answered in short, one to three word sentences, in the hopes that she might stop, but apparently, that was too much to ask for. She persevered, and in the end, to keep up some kind of image for myself, I'd ended up answering. The car journey, though, did seem to serve as the first time in years that I had had a conversation with my mother that had lasted more than a minute. This realisation made me even more glad that we hadn't moved to somewhere even further away. The thought of spending more time with my mother didn't exactly fill me with joy.

     As I put the shirt down to pick another, I thought of the day after we'd moved in. I'd taken my little brother to the park, and seen a family there -- two children running around, a father, and a mother holding a small child. I'd seen the mother, struggling with her crying baby. I remember offering to help. She had seemed so relieved, so trusting. She -- Janet, she had told me as I held her crying child, was her name -- had instantly trusted me. She already had connections with my mother. "Why don't you babysit?" She had asked me that question, and I'd seen no reason to say no. This family had put their faith and trust in me. They had believed that they were right to do that. Over one holiday, I had gotten that family to trust me. Then, yesterday...

     There was a knock at the door, and I heard what I assumed to be my mother saying, "Can I come in?" I shouted a yes, and watched her as she cautiously opened the door. She always acted like this around me, cagey and scared. I liked it that way, when I had someone under control.

     "Gerard? Your breakfast is ready, sweetie!" She said this with too much enthusiasm. "You'll be ready for school soon, huh? New school, new people, and maybe you'll make new friends! You'll-" She seemed to realise that I'd not spoken and that I was effectively ignoring her, so she coughed, then closed the door behind her. I found my bag, and walked out of the room.

     As I left, a door at the other end of the corridor opened. It was Mikey. He took one look at me, then walked back inside. My brother, even at eight years old, was less cagey than my mother, and more suspicious. Mikey would do this all the time; notice me in a room, then leave. He had only let me take him to the park because our mother insisted. I didn't have a problem with this at all, though. I liked to let them walk around me like they were stepping on eggshells.

     I walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where my mother had laid out some toast. i took a slice, then walked out of the house, listening to my mother shout, telling me to have a good day. I ignored her, and walked out of the door.

     As I walked, more memories of the family I had met in the park came to mind. Yesterday. No one had known I was there, least of all them. And one by one, I watched as the blood left their bodies, the knife in my hands covered in blood, cold and dead and heavy, just like them. The price of trusting me. And I had waited until hours later, as I stood at least ten miles away from their house, to call the police. In the dark of the night, I confessed. I told them what I had done.

     I smiled as I remembered the memory, letting myself turn the corner of the street. I'd arrived at the school. The steps at the front were held by uninviting boys with arms the size of loaves of bread. They were adorned with pretty little, whisker thin girls, who seemed to cling on like the shirts they wore. I hated that anyone would pretend to have this kind of dependency; these kind of girls and boys would drop the other at the sign of a better prospect, and each of them knew it. If it was me, I'd tell them exactly the life dependency of our relationship.

     The boys looked me up and down as I walked up the steps, and the girls looked at me with some kind of interested disgust. I let them watch me walk up the stairs, and I heard a boy behind me yell "gayboy!" which wasn't very original at all. I grinned. Reaching the top of the stairs, in front of the door, I didn't let myself enter. Instead I turned around. The boy that had shouted at me was apparently the leader of the group, who had four friends almost as big as him, grinned, thinking he had gotten to me. I looked him directly in the eyes, smirked, and and blew him a kiss.

     The result of my actions was a sea of dumbfounded faces that looked as if they'd just seen their supreme leader shot. They stared at me for a good five second, as I pushed open the door of the school and walked in, then shouted more 'insults' at me as I walked off. None of them ran after me, though. They were too stupid to think that that would be a good idea. Some kids who had watched from the inside looked at me like I had just murdered the devil for them. They grinned, but looked completely uncertain. I heard people whispering behind me. I hadn't even been here five minutes yet. I liked to do this -- shock people before they even knew me.

     I let them watch me pass through the corridor to the reception, where a bored looking woman seemed to find her nails extremely interesting. She finally looked up, not hiding her contempt at all. 

     "What would you like?" She asked, looking faintly disgusted. I glanced in the mirror behind her, but only saw myself as I had left the house -- leather jacket, black hair, jeans, and an excessive amount of eyeliner. It was probably the eyeliner she had a problem with. This made me smile.

     "I was wondering, miss," I said, affecting an air of politeness, "Since I'm new, can I please have a timetable? I guess I would need one since I have no idea what I'm doing." The receptionist looked at me suspiciously. In a bid to win her over, I motioned at her necklace, which looked as if it had been re-glued at least seventeen times. "Your necklace, by the way, is beautiful."

     The receptionist looked taken aback for a second, then smiled at me as if I had made her day.

     "Why, thank you! I've got to say, it hasn't always been like this. Honestly, I thought it was a mess, but you're so polite! I-" She seemed to remember why I was here. "I'm sorry, you'll be wanting your timetable, huh? I tend to over talk, I'm so sorry! You're new aren't you? Gerard?"

     I nodded, done with talking. She sent the sheet of paper to the printer, and grinned at me as it came out. She picked it up and handed it to me. I nodded thanks, smiled, then left. I was glad to be rid of the woman, I thought as I walked through the empty corridors. The bell had gone earlier, so she would have had no reason to not keep me longer to talk to me as everybody was now gone. I wasn't prepared for anymore conversation. Instead I walked to where a map was telling me Room 37 was, which had apparently moved to the other end of the school. Let's just say I wasn't pleased.

     Room 37, I noticed when I arrived, was already full of teens. With the addition of the boy from earlier. I smiled as I watched him retell the morning's events like the poet he was.

     "This little faggot, man, he's so fucking bent! He fucking blew a fucking kiss at me, the little fucker! The gay little shit is so getting it!"

     At that moment, I pushed the door open, and watched as every head in the room turned to me. The boy seemed to be foaming at the mouth before I'd walked in, but now he looked as if he'd just had a full-on shot of rabies.

     "Getting what?" I asked, feigning confusion. "Your dick? I've declined better offers, but thanks." I smiled amiably, then moved to the desk at the back, with two empty spaces. I sat down, removed my bag from my shoulder, and put it under the desk where I couldn't see it, all the while feeling everyone's eyes on me. Ignoring the silence in the room, I picked up my pencils and notepad, and started to draw. I heard the boy start to rise.

     "You motherfucker--" I looked up, which caused him to falter. He recovered quickly, and was about to stand up fully, when a man about fifty who looked as if he was trying to hide under the few strands of brown hair on his head walked in. He looked at the boy as if he was a misbehaving fie year old.

     "Zach! Sit down!" Zach turned to look at the person who I assumed to be the teacher, then gave me one last look of fury and disgust. He turned back in his chair, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were the colour of chalk. The man at the front turned to look at me. He studied me for a second, before apparently registering that I was actually there.

     "And you are?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

     "Gerard, sir. Gerard Way." I gave him a smile, but he just looked back at me, as if I needed to say more. "I'm a new student here. Moved here recently." The teacher seemed to think I'd said enough, though I didn't see how that extra information had helped him. He motioned around the room in a sweeping motion before saying,

     "This is my classroom. Room 37. You'll be expected to come here every morning after the first bell, to register. You have a timetable?" I nodded. "Good. I, by the way, am your teacher for these morning sessions. My name is Mr Reynolds. I'm also obliged to give you a friend to take you around. You can have..." He looked around the room, before pointing at a boy in the corner. "Frank. You can have Frank, who will show you around. Frank, is that clear?"

     The boy, Frank, nodded. He looked terrified.

     "Well, we'll register now." Mr Reynolds turned to his computer, where he proceeded to call out names. I turned to look at Frank, who was rigidly facing forward. He looked almost unwell with fear, and, when his name was called out, he answered weakly. He looked so submissive and timid, and also very young, like a twelve year old.

     The bell went, just as Mr. Reynolds had finished taking the register. Everyone but me stood up in unison. I preferred to take my time, and returned my notepad and pencils, which had lain forgotten, to my bag. As I did so, I heard a small cough, and looked up to see Frank. He looked so shy and unwilling. He had the same look in his eyes as that mother, and I knew, just then, that he would end up just like her.

     "Um, hi, dude," He started nervously, "I'm--"

     "Frank. Yeah, I know. And I've got a lesson in Room 2 next, which is probably years away. I guess you'll show me how to get there."

     Frank looked taken aback. I realised that I did this a lot -- shock people. It was quite a satisfying feeling to know that you made someone uncomfortable. They wouldn't know how to react; you'd caught them out.

     I stood up, slinging the bag around my neck. Frank looked even more uncomfortable then before. He seemed confused when I stepped forward a I tried to leave the confines of the desk, but when he worked it out, he blushed, and moved so quickly, I thought he would fall. However, he stayed upright and moved to the door, where he was expecting me to follow. I did follow him, and as we walked into the corridor full of people, I made sure he and I were side by side.

     He seemed to not mind this closeness, so I pressed in a little closer to hear him over the shouts. "So, Frank," I started, watching his face go from nervous to extremely worried. "You look as if you're uncomfortable with --" I was cut off when something heavy pushed Frank against the lockers on the other side. It was Zach, who looked about as merciful as he was small. But he wasn't looking at me; in fact, it seemed as if he hadn't notice my presence. Instead, he stood staring at Frank like he was about to eat him.

     "This," Zach spat, as Frank looked helplessly up at him, "is for just being the gayboy that you are and thinking you're _so_ much better than me that you'd let your little gay friend talk to me like that." Zach's friends stood around them, grinning at Frank's helplessness. They were almost the size of their 'fearless leader', and cracked their knuckles so slowly, it was like bones crunching together.

     Zach lifted his arm, and punched Frank square in the jaw. Frank didn't even struggle. he looked about as threatening as a five year old, and seemed to know that. He had now ay of defending himself-- two of Zach's hit squad were holding Frank's arms back. Zach didn't seem to care that they should all be somewhere else at that moment in time, not a deserted corridor where there were no classrooms nearby to hear the noise. He did, though, seem to care about where I was.

     "Where's your gay friend, you little shit? You let him talk to me like that, huh? I'll--"

     And that's when I punched Zach so hard in the face that he let go of Frank and fell to the ground. He had no help from his besties as I climbed on top of him and punched him hard enough that his nose bled. They had looked almost confused as I had punched Zach, and were now slowly walking away.

     I attacked Zach with anger that I didn't know I had. When I hurt someone, it was always out of boredom, for fun. Even when I was angry, it wasn't like this -- anger that made me see red. It must've been because I couldn't bear to see someone do what _I_ wanted to. _I_ wanted to hurt Frank, right from the beginning, and it wasn't Zach's place to do that at all.

     My anger came out in punches that felt red and hot and resentful, making Zach's face bruised and swollen. He'd picked a good place for a fight -- no classrooms equalled no help. No one came as Zach shouted. Perks of a big school. He would lie there alone for a very long time.

     Zach had finally stopped struggling completely. I climbed off from on top of him, and wiped my bloody hands on his black shirt.

     I turned to see Frank shaking in the gap between two lockers. He looked up at me, and I smiled, in a way that was sympathetic. Frank looked as though he was about to throw up. I held my hand out so he could take it, and pulled him p so that we were eye level. We stood looking at each other for longer than I thought necessary, so I let go of his hand, whilst watching the colour rise in his cheeks.

     "I- I- Thank you for- _wow-_ I- I'm sorry - you just beat him up, dude, because of me. Wow, I...  don't know what to say!"

     I grinned. "You've said enough. This asshole can stay here." I said this as I motioned towards Zach. Frank looked uncertain for a second as he watched Zach still breathing hard on the floor. Then turned to me.

     I knew already, from the short time that I had known him, that Zach would get up before anyone saw him. It would be a sign of weakness, as King Dick of the school, that he had been beaten up by the new kid, and he most definitely did not want that.

    "Frank, I still need to get to Room 2." I said. I was still panting hard.

     Frank nodded. I turned to look at Zach, who still lay on the floor, his face a mix of lovely reds, blues and purples. I looked down at him, grinning.

     "Did no one ever tell you it's rude to be homophobic?"

     Then I blew him a kiss, and turned on my heel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've finally finished chapter 1! Thanks anyone who's reading this! Also, sorry for taking practically years to do this! Please like, comment, vote, and anything else you think this story deserves so far! I love you all. Really!
> 
> xoxo, candiedkaydi!


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